


Phoenix Rising

by CeruleanElf



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Betrayal, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Revival AU, Survivor Guilt, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23765302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeruleanElf/pseuds/CeruleanElf
Summary: Called back into life after death, Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider, former Lord of the Blood Elves, must learn to face the consequences for his past crimes all while dealing with deep-seated trauma and guilt. From Outland to Pandaria, Kael'thas learns what it means to be truly alone with himself through soul-searching and, thus, reconnecting with various people in his former life.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Seer's Secret

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of my long, overdue fic regarding Kael'thas Sunstrider from the Warcraft series. This is my attempt at creating a resurrection arc for Kael'thas that, for the purpose of this story alone, goes from his death in Magister's Terrace all the way to Mists of Pandaria. On my Tumblr roleplay blog, this fic is meant to be a supplemental guide to the Revival AU verse. From now until its completion, each chapter will presumably be posted every weekend.
> 
> If what I have interests you, I encourage you to leave constructive feedback. Praise or kudos is appreciated, but not required. The comments help let me know where I need to go with this fic and keeps me going.
> 
> Finally, thank you for reading!

* * *

**Shattrath, Year 26**

**Voren’thal’s Private Quarters at the Scryer’s Tier**

Voren’thal the Seer sat surrounded by dusty old tomes, several of which he had yet to transcribe into simple runestones. It was, he had often boasted, his finest experiment yet, the one project of his life’s work that would succeed at trading in illusion for reality, deceptions for the truth and the truth alone. He took pride in not only instructing his fellow Scryers in the practice, but also placed a good deal of faith in the naaru, for it was through them that he discovered the ultimate truth: the blood elves would find salvation.

 _And that they did._ He wouldn’t trade his faith for anything else.

_Or anyone else._

He smiled at his visitor, the Lady Liadrin, who sat on the edge of a satin chaise across from where he sat at his desk. Ah, the infamous Matriarch of the Blood Knights, he thought as he leaned against his chair. She appeared to be keeping _some_ of her wits about her in this strange place. She had been here a mere few days compared to his several months. For how humid the air got, he wondered how she could sit _still_ in full plate armor, although she did tug at a few strands in her auburn hair, which she kept tied back and pinned. She wore a tabard, black draped over the front with the golden design of a helmet that reflected the efforts of the Shattered Sun in Quel’Danas. A great sword, secured in its hilt, rested at her side, and a bird-like shield at her back. Gone were the staves and religious tomes she carried to prayer services and pilgrimages to the Sunwell. She had clearly been well-equipped, minus the blood, to fighting the blasted demons. It had _clearly_ been several years since they last met, when Liadrin bore the clerical robes of her order and was named High Priestess.

His smirk widened into a grin as he watched Liadrin pay attention to a miniscule eruption outside his chambers, and then came the descendance of a green meteor falling like a comet in the sky. She reached for her glass of wine and remained on the edge of the chaise.

“I do hope the Twisting Nether does not unsettle you, my good lady,” he said, chuckling. “It troubles me enough that you came all this way from Silvermoon to inform us of the victory on Quel’Danas. Do let me refill your beverage.” With the snap of his fingers, the seer enchanted the wine bottle inside his drawer and levitated it to move towards her, promptly refilling her glass of red.

“Silvermoon Port. What a pleasant secret you keep around,” she said, ignoring his initial comment. She pressed her lips to her glass, savoring the taste of the wine. “Does the seer contain any more secrets, or has he become an open book?”

“Why, no. It is no more the same regard in that my followers maintain a replica of Quel’Thalas. Home is far away, you understand, but a part of it shall always remind us of its glory.” He flicked his wrist again, corking the wine bottle, and levitating it back towards him to rest in his drawer. As he shut the drawer, he felt a sudden flash of pain rush to his head, having made the mistake of gazing down at a box filled with rings. A shudder burst through as he made out the crimson shine of the seal that once belonged to the forces of Kael’thas Sunstrider.

The young son of Anasterian, and their sole leader, disturbed his mind whenever he walked out onto the tier. He would scour over the books in his library, remembering the prince’s early fascination for tomes, scrolls, and the like. The seer’s own followers all would wear determined but stoic masks, whispering throughout this entire war over Kael’thas this and Kael’thas that. As leader of the Scryers, Voren’thal had a right to know what the madman was up to and how best to reveal his activities in Netherstorm. Sometimes, he retreated into his quarters, weary of hearing such rabble. But if he knew of one truth, it was that everyone felt hurt, betrayed by Kael’thas’s actions, and people like Liadrin back in Quel’Thalas were no different. Peering into his crystals even after the prince’s death only served to remind the seer of his apparent value in divination magic, of which the prince would once humbly request in times of distress.

“With all due respect, great seer,” she spoke up, snapping him thankfully out of his trance. “Silvermoon understands the importance of your duties to the naaru, and we humbly thank the Scryers for their contributions against the Legion. If not for your timely findings, Azeroth would have been doomed—and the Sunwell would not have been restored.”

Did she hesitate there?

“We own but a slice of the victory. Your forces were a testament of good faith.” He smiled conspiratorially. “One does not need _eyes_ to see the powers of the Sunwell, for I have sensed its energies awakening within me from here.”

“It has certainly reignited my faith in the Light.”

“As much as we’ve both had faith in the workings of fate. I sometimes wonder if it was of our accord, or if it was truly destiny that the Legion invaded only to be decimated at the hands of our renewed strength.”

“Of course. Why would it be anything else?”

“It is my understanding that the _prince_ was recently buried on our sacred soil.”

He watched her shift a bit and placed her wine glass on the table in front of her, sighing. “If you wish to know, it was with the approval of the people that _the prince_ ,”—she said with some hesitation—“be buried in Quel’Danas.”

“And they may do as they wish.” Voren’thal leaned on his desk, his elbows resting on the surface as he steepled his fingers. Somehow, he wanted to know _more_. He was forming his next question with caution. “And where is he buried?”

“At Sun’s Reach Sanctum,” she replied with a sigh. “Our architects are constructing a fairly large site to properly bury the dead. As is customary, the prince was the first to be embalmed followed by several of our fallen kin, some of whom were my knights.”

He nodded, leaned back in his chair, and raised his glass. “Then we shall drink to those who sacrificed much so that we may bask in the resurrection of our homeland once more.”

* * *

That night, Voren’thal disposed of his second glass of wine. It was not like him to drink more than half of one, considering his old age and frail health. That night, he tried to will away the conversation of Kael’thas, tried to lose himself in the conversion of his arcane tomes into runestones. Adjusted the astrolabe. Pored through books. Enchanted the dusters and brooms to clean his rooms. In frustration, he pushed away from the desk and rose from his seat. He winced at the ache in his knees and retreated into his bedroom.

He felt that same flash of pain rushing to his head. If he had made the mistake of peering down at those vile rings of Kael’thas’s loyalists, then he had made an even greater mistake of keeping them around when he should have given them to one of his own magi. Bah, where exactly Magistrix Fyalenn was mattered little; the Alliance and the Horde kept everyone especially busy anyway. Voren’thal did not feel a drop of remorse for the killing of those loyal to the traitor prince. The story of the blood elves’ salvation had come full circle. So why did the seer feel such a dilemma?

He would have words with the naaru, A’dal.

Voren’thal placed his magister’s robe on the coat rack and slipped into a night robe. With a flick of his finger, he set a small flame to the incense bottle resting on his end table. Filling the room was a wafting scent of peacebloom, an herb commonly known to bring calm, clarity, and revitalization. In the misty calm, he let down his long, white mane, placed the hair tie on the end table, and blew out the candle. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he fell asleep.

The seer entered the dreamscape. Lucid dreaming provided a safer, more convenient means of contacting his source than if he were to show in public, especially with the Aldor walking about. As his body materialized, the Light shone all around him, and peace washed over him in the form of celestial chimes. Still and idle in his form, the naaru A’dal recognized and greeted the elf, blessing his presence.

The naaru spoke, its voice light and soothing. “ _I know that something troubles you, Seer. You are seeking clarity of the future now that this war against the Legion is won.”_

“My Scryers and the Shattered Sun vanquished the remainder of those vile traitors, and yet I feel a troubling sense of loss. Is it true, great naaru? Have we seen the last of them?”

_“You have seen the last of them, but not of the Legion. This war is won for now. As for your kin…”_

“What of my kin? What beholds them, great one?”

 _“Mistrust_ ,” A’dal said simply.

Mistrust? Who among them? Before he could ask, A’dal disappeared, and the vision shifted. The elder found himself climbing atop the Sunfury Spire, now panting as if in a hurry. The image of Lor'themar manifested in the throne room, and he gave the regent lord a nod of acknowledgement. He, too, regarded Halduron Brightwing and Grand Magister Rommath. Liadrin off to the side gave him that same smile as if nothing had changed. Why should he be concerned? Everything certainly _looked_ normal.

“ _Elu’meniel mal alann_ , Voren’thal.”

His ears hurt at the sound of a familiar voice, dread forming a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. As if to prevent any further damage, he turned his head slowly to identify the owner of that voice. He prayed he was wrong.

And how sorely he was.

“Kae… Kael’thas?”

The elf did not budge, did not leave his sight, but kept his gaze on him. The most resplendent gold shone in his eyes—and wounds, bleeding from his neck and chest, brought the elderly elf to tears. All at once, Voren’thal’s chest boiled with rage. He wanted so badly to curse the him, to tell the wretched princeling he deserved the pain and whatever torment the demons wrought upon him—but the Light’s presence stopped him. A soft wind brushed against his back and pushed him forward. He gulped. He noticed red circles where his fingers had folded into a tight fist. He began to make his way, awkwardly and shaken. Voren’thal was no stranger to specters, had seen thousands in his visions. Seen the ghosts of many of his fallen kin. Had seen the future and held fast to its truths, to restoration. But in the presence of this being, he was beside himself, perplexed and lost.

“You…” He was almost breathless with his anger, but still the Light flowed through him, guiding him to speak. He forced out the words as if each one hurt his throat. “I once held you in high regard, traitor! I trusted you as you once trusted me. How _dare_ you show your face around here. You failed us! Why?”

But the prince did not respond. Could he not hear him? Voren’thal drew near the elf and reached out to see... if he was even real. As he did so, the word “fate” echoed in his head, growing louder with each reiteration. More shockingly, Kael’thas began to mouth the word.

“The hour draws near, and so is your fate to DIE,” spoke a booming, disembodied voice.

* * *

Voren’thal awoke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. He placed a hand over his sweaty forehead, trying to quell the echo of the demon who had just spoken in the vision.

Or was it a vision? Merely a ghost of his past. Ordinary people did not quite remember their dreams so vividly, but a seer did, and in ways they could never imagine. The images replayed in his mind. Questions that now wracked his brain begged for answers. The sound of portals blared in the distance. Liadrin had gone back home just before sunrise, not staying long enough for him to ask her anything more about Kael’thas—he would have if she didn’t seem to dread talking about him.

Kael’thas had often relied on his divine counsel as a close advisor. Somehow, he thought he should feel guilty for defecting from the prince in the first place, but Kael’thas had dug his own grave. In the moment of silent reverie, the seer now gathered some runestones and separated them out in their own “slots.” He then dropped to the floor and drew symbols on the ground. Closing his eyes, he whispered an ancient Thalassian incantation to begin the ritual. 

Slowly, he took a breath, seeking to stabilize the dream in his mind’s eye. Relief washed over him with the distant yet strong power of the Sunwell—he could not help but brush his fingers against the blade of a metaphorical double-edged sword:

 _Know that the light of the Sunwell dwells... in all of them._

“In all of whom?” he whispered. Every image—the people with golden eyes, scarred wounds of the fallen prince in their presence, the demon… what did it all mean?

Voren’thal shut his eyes tighter now, trying not to break the ritual with such images. A mixture of emotions—shock, anger, and finally, bittersweet—welled up in his chest as the seer sought to cast it away.

And then the ritual was broken. The runestones ceased their shine, refusing to give him more information. Voren’thal panted, muttering a curse in his native tongue. He stood up and reached for a cloth on the table, patting his forehead. It was all he could do that night. In recent times, with his ailing health, the seer could not do as much as his body would allow. As he dismissed the vision, he felt a frustrating _sense of loss_. At what, he did not know.

Like the damned that rotted beneath the ground, so did the vision fade.


	2. The Awakening

**Isle of Quel’Danas, One Week Later**

Kael’thas Sunstrider quivered against the cold chill of wind on his bare back as he watched the spiral in the center of the sky. Compared to the dark room from which he had just left, all was black and white with little noise. Just the air he so keenly heard grew louder with each passing minute. He did not know how long he had been here, how long he was dead—or if he even was dead. What he did remember was the last vestiges of anger, and hatred, that coated his final words--

_“You will drown in your own blood! The world shall burn!”_

And then there was no world. Not here in this obsidian darkness. He felt something of phantom pain in his throat, accompanied by images of choking on his blood and a sharp blade that ended his life. He ran his hand down his chest as if acquiring another piece of his death—and a cold, mysterious hand gripped his wrist, pulling his own hand away. He turned at once to a blue-skinned hooded figure, dressed in white cloth that draped her body from head to toe. Massive, angelic wings fluttered behind her back as she began to guide him away. _“Come, young soul,”_ she beckoned softly. _  
_

He must have been walking forever and had a moment to feel again while in the stranger’s care. No soldiers in his wake. No voices or masters in his head. No, the last bit struck him: _The fel was gone_ . He could breathe again, that is, if he had any reason to in this time and space. If he could produce tears, he would cry of relief. He had not thought to try it, but what did he feel was the lack of pressure—and a sudden realization that somehow he was wrong. Beyond the evergreen forests of Eversong and throughout Silvermoon and Azeroth, he had almost done the unthinkable. It was not even this _almost_ , but the fact that he had pledged himself to the very creators of that which nearly destroyed the world. Did he really just want to watch the world burn? For all the injustices done to him and his people, it seemed valid.

He looked at the spirit guide, trying to clear his head by guessing that perhaps she was taking him to his final destination. To his damnation. So be it. If he deserved all the fires in hell, then so be it. Part of him still clung to the instinct of survival as he gauged his surroundings. What if this spirit guide was a dreadlord in disguise? What if this was Azeroth, and he had entered into its doomed state? He cringed to think of it. Suddenly he felt her release his hand. The angelic figure stopped dead in her tracks and muttered something in a language he did not know. His ice blue eyes followed the direction in which she was looking and caught a glimmer of light penetrating the spirit realm. The glimmer grew larger, and celestial chimes pierced the dead silence.

_“It would seem your time has yet to come,”_ said the spirit guide, not looking back as she dissipated into thin air, replaced by the light’s invasion. Warmth trickled across his pale skin like rain falling through the leaves of trees. Radiant shimmers of gold materialized before him, shining so brightly that he rose an arm to cover his eyes for a second. In that moment, he felt searing pain and grit his teeth to bear it. No more did he hear celestial music in his head than he recalled the familiar creature that manifested before him. If this naaru’s presence provided any indication, then the spirit guide must have led him to this massive being for judgement. How ironic--and fitting.

_“Greetings, young one. I am Xe’ra, Prime among the Naaru. I know your deeds, Kael’thas Sunstrider,”_ Xe’ra said, her ethereal voice plain and clear. _“Know, too, that judgement awaits you.”_ Silence blanketed the space between them for several long moments before she spoke again. _“Though there are many paths to atonement, I have come to offer you but one.”_

Kael’thas tilted his head. Had she an ulterior motive? Were naaru even capable of such thinking? 

For all his thinking on the matter, he could surmise that Xe’ra relied on this one single way. Of course, he would never take up holy magic; his life’s work was the arcane, but Kael’thas had dabbled into its polar opposite for far too long, and with adverse effects, effects that granted him great power—at the cost of damning himself and almost the whole world over. He could just as easily refuse the naaru and accept his damnation. After all, wasn’t he only trying to do right by the sin'dorei in the end? Still, part of him wanted to keep moving forward, as if he wanted to do _better_. “What is this other way?”

All at once, the background shifted to that of the Great Dark Beyond. Here, she showed him visuals of both the Sunwell’s destruction and restoration, meant as flashbacks and a dose of reality respectively. He gave an incredulous look as he witnessed what he never lived to see again: a beam of pure, sacred energy shot up from the darkness, its chamber wrought and up towards the sky, serving as the eternal beacon of hope and sacredness that sustained his people since the dawning age of Quel’Thalas, since the time of Dath’Remar. Truly he did not deserve to see such a sight, to have seen the font of energy come alive in that singular moment. He shook both in awe and dread. “Why?” he asked, his voice cracking with more emotion than he had anticipated. “Why show me all of this?”

_“M’uru was willing to give his life for your people, and his sacrifice was not in vain. In that defining moment, if you had not delivered him to them, he would not have been in his proper position to reignite the Sunwell at the time necessary.”_ Xe’ra said, _“do you see, Sunstrider? Every step taken, every decision made, has led to the font’s restoration and—to their survival. You played your role, despite not knowing your purpose. Many of them have chosen not to see it as such, and you must balance the suffering caused, but your own suffering was a sacrifice, a choice you chose before your life’s incarnation.”_

“Your words are generous,” he considered, “but I hardly think my supposed sacrifice bears any merit. You should know that my people are not fond of me, my actions, or words. They will no doubt plead a second execution, and how many times must I die before it is enough?” Before _he_ was enough _._ As he finished his sentence, he felt warmth penetrating the core of his mind, and he tried to push the overwhelming power away. He did not need her telling him what was and what was not, much less invade his mind. He thought of casting his protective magic to ward off the intrusive naaru, but he thought the better of it and continued to listen.

_“Few souls of such power know what it means to be truly alone while surrounded by admirers. You have faced a great enemy - your own ego, pride and arrogance, and faltered before it. Rise again, carrying the wisdom taught by your darkest self, in service of the Light.”_

Kael’thas knew he should have felt uneasy from the way Xe'ra tried to spark motivation. He had lost all hope long ago, clouded with a burning need for revenge. If she was right about one thing, it was that he knew what it meant to be alone. To be lonely. To be abandoned.

_“I am in search of another. You know him well by name and deed and have fought beside him once. In time, I will grant him allies, and you will be among them.”_

Allies? Kael’thas raised his brow. He hardly knew of whom Xe’ra was speaking. It was yet another puzzle to solve from the fairly enigmatic naaru. Indeed, Kael’thas had fought alongside many noteworthy figures. The fact that this naaru did not disclose his name made the hair on the back of his neck stand upright. Knowing their telepathic powers by now, he refrained from inquiring, for he guessed that she would not be willing to help him further. “Then I… suppose I will have to accept your offer,” he said with a mix of calmness and mild frustration.  
  
 _“We will call upon you in time.”_ In an instant the Light dissipated, and everything went black.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Pain surged through his body like water bursting through a dam. The awakening immediately caused him to lean forward, fingers deep into sand, and cough with a violence that seemed as though he had choked or almost drowned and was clinging to much needed air. A surge of saliva throttled in his throat, which ceased to suffer with each passing second. Kael’thas took deep breaths to compose himself. He struggled to get up as a general weakness enveloped his entire arms and legs. His vision, however, returned quickly. He no longer saw black and white, but color washing over the coast of Quel’Danas.

Familiar golden wings towered over the tallest white marble buildings, accented with red and gold. He managed to tilt his head up towards the first thing that left him awestruck —the distant beams of the Sunwell. Despite his current physical limitations, Kael’thas could feel its sacred energy flow through his veins. He had not felt such purity in ages. Then his brow furrowed, and he hung his head low. He should not feel this, he should not feel any of this. He dug his fingers so deep into the sand that he clutched a few pearls of sand. He let the sands slip from his hands. Whatever he felt, he was given a second chance at life, and he was not going to waste it sitting here.

His ears twitched at the clanging of hammers in the distance, banging on what sounded like stone followed by the sliding of planks brought on by magical currents. “Blasted nails!” cursed someone in Thalassian. 

He began to stand, weak and trembling before slipping on one knee. Blood rushed to his head quickly, and he found himself clutching his head. He clenched his teeth, coping with dizziness and confusion. Could he even face them? In the far distance, he heard footsteps crunching in the grass amid the rustling of leaves, autumnal brown and red falling in his hair, which no longer shone ghost white but glistened like the gold he had always had. Some fell as he shook his head and listened for the sound. _Damn_. He would be facing them much sooner than later.

“Over there! Something stirs in the field,” someone said in the distance.

“Must be another one of those damned Wretched,” said the other, nocking his bow.

_“Do not move. I shall teleport you to safety,”_ Xe’ra called inside his head and, in a flash of light, he disappeared.

* * *

**Shattrath, Two Days After the Rebirth of Kael’thas Sunstrider**

**Voren’thal’s Private Chambers at the Scryer’s Tier**

He dreamed that he lay on the coast of Quel’Danas--in the same spot where his father had made his last stand against Arthas Menethil. Dark purple spilled into an ocean of stars that glistened like the gems in his father’s crown as his long hair swept past his face, as white as a ghost. The materialized figure seemed to be inspecting a ruined Thalassian destroyer, one Kael'thas recognized as one of his own. Still attached to its post, tattered sails flew above the Northern Sea, emblazoned with the majestic phoenix. A spectral woman, his mother, with pearls in her hair approached Anasterian and greeted the Phoenix God Al’ar, the bird’s pink and orange essence illuminating the darkness as it perched on her arm. The queen had the misfortune of passing centuries ago when he was but a boy, but his father would always remind him of the open-mindedness he inherited from her.

And here they were, swirling around ships that once carried his Dawnblade to protect their fallen prince as he summoned the Deceiver. In truth, they were all deceived, himself included. Kael'thas thought he could see the frown in his father's face, mulling over his son's deeds with disappointment and sadness. "I... only wanted to make you proud of me. Surely you'd understand, Father?" Kael'thas whispered with the words of a boy as he addressed not the High King, but his father. All at once, he felt the blow of an arrow in his side. He turned his head to his assailant. Two Farstriders. They crouched in wait, and he could see fear—and fel—in their eyes. The ghost of Anasterian faded and left Kael'thas with the enemies he once made.

One of them turned, nocked their bow, and shot down a Wretched charging at them like a starving ghoul. As someone who felt those gnawing pangs to that point of deprivation, Kael’thas knew it was searching for fel crystals, the only damned source that sustained his people for years. He watched the Wretched die at the ranger’s feet and saw the difference between his most loyal followers and the ones that defected from him.

Then another arrow hit him. Nay, two, as fire now blazed in their eyes at him.

Then he awoke to find himself laying in silk reminiscent of the ones on funerary beds in Silvermoon. Incense, oiled in spice and sage, filled the room. There was no door, no window. Through the still weak currents of his magic, he could at least feel some semblance of disconnect between this room and whatever building to which it was supposedly attached. It was isolation. A sepulcher. The symbolism of the dream still shook him with both sorrow and disgust. That accursed runeblade may have taken his father’s soul, but sometimes when he felt lost, he wondered if he could feel even an essence of Anasterian’s magic in the air. The reminder that his father was there somehow.

As if his thoughts of spirits had any welcoming influence, he sensed a shadow creep along a stone wall and finally, a glimmer of someone casting off a spell of invisibility. The aura of this person did not give off the feeling that it was a spy or an assassin, but a mage like himself, a _familiar_ mage _._

“Alive, are you?” Voren’thal asked with disgust as he materialized into the room, with his arms folded in a corner and shadowed underneath a dim chandelier. Hair white as snow strewn down the elf’s back, looming past the front of his chest. A golden crown covered his forehead, sure to prevent any traces of loose hair from falling in his face. White magister robes—black with gold embellishments across his chest and further down the sides below his hemline—adorned his rather frail body. Over his robe, he wore a black tabard, a golden sigil with wings etched in its center. Gripping the loose sleeves of his robe, the elder pressed his arms further into his chest defensively.

“Voren’thal,” Kael’thas said with slight incredulity in his voice. “Where… how did I...?” Even though he could easily take on the old seer, Kael’thas had neither strength nor willpower to engage him in a fight. In the dim light of the room, he could see Voren’thal’s face squeeze down in anger, his shoulders stiff and face as bloodless and stark white as his hair. As he stepped out of the darkness towards Kael’thas, the younger elf realized he had understandably confused the seer just as much.

“You are here – in my personal chambers. This is merely a separate room.”

“Have you… come to finish me off personally?” 

“Would if I could,” he said, his voice thick with contempt. “Although perhaps this is a start. You are weakened and so, I could send you back to whatever hell you crawled out of.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Kael’thas said plainly.

The seer raised one, long eyebrow. “A nonchalant response from someone who did not care for his people. Have you the faintest idea of what you had almost done?”

“What I _tried_ to do, seer, was secure our people’s future. Did you not—”

“With demons, Kael’thas! Ancestors, I knew we could never trust the likes of Stormrage and his fel-loving crew. We should have found help elsewhere, but you—”

In a violent swirl of red and black, Kael’thas spun around and hissed at the elder, his restrained fists clenched at his side. He felt emotions rise that had not seen the surface until the old man reopened the wound. Suddenly, he whirled. “And who else was so eager, so generous enough to lend us their aid? The Alliance failed us not once but _twice_. Stormrage and Vashj were a far cry from help. Akama had other matters to attend to.”

“We had the naaru, Kael’thas, and you refused my offer.”

“You made such pacts behind your sovereign’s back. Such an act is a defection on my name.”

“Defection! By the Sun, I reached out to you. I received no reply from you at all. Why, you were no better at communicating with your followers than that fool of a demon hunter.”

"You should have--" he cut himself off. It was useless talking to a man of old traditions. Voren’thal was right at one thing - Kael’thas was never on par with his people, was never there when they absolutely needed him most. What he had to say didn't matter. He carried the guilt with him to his grave. Death erased his physical suffering from the fel, but it did not ease his burdens. He did, however, feel something from Voren’thal’s deeds—that he felt abandoned and a failure. He turned his head away and ceased to speak, not trusting the words he thought to come cracking with emotion.

A moment later, Voren’thal broke the silence and let out a sigh that he seemed to have been holding in quite some time. “I trusted you, Kael’thas. We all did. When I heard the news that you allied with the Legion, I could not believe it at first. Some of my Scryers went scouting across the far reaches of Netherstorm. Others hid from the denizens of Shattrath, ashamed that their leader had become nothing more than a traitor. Then news resurfaced that you had been revived after the battle in Quel’Danas.”

Kael’thas listened. He was alive now, that much was certain, and whether this chance proved to be a blessing, or a curse was yet to be seen. In the presence of such a foe, Kael’thas was expecting the latter—and sooner than this. Could the seer not have just killed him, spared himself the trouble?

“I realize any apology I have for the pain will never be enough; I find it shocking that you refrain from killing me on sight or informing Lor’themar Theron of my whereabouts.”

“You see,” Voren’thal said with a sigh. With the flick of his hand, he placed a soundproof ward over the entire room before casting an image over a bare wall. The figment manifested into artificial glimmers of the Light, cascading like fish splashing in the waters of Elrendar Lake. Kael’thas recognized the figure in the illusion and furrowed his brow. “It was the naaru who told me of your coming, presented to me in a dream that you would be resurrected and behind the walls of Silvermoon once again. The dream ended before it was made clear to me just what you would be doing. I did not know that what I had dreamt was a vision until they had brought you to rest in this very room. You had been asleep these past two days, and I dreaded what horrors lie in wake for us all. But the naaru told me to have faith. When you had awoken this morning, I noticed their golden imprint in your eyes. That was when I realized: The naaru have brought you back for a reason, a reason I can neither fully discern nor will I ever understand, but I trust their judgement above all else.”

“I see,” Kael’thas said, furrowing his brow, searching his memory. He recalled the betrayal as clear as day. Images of demons at his back as the fel-addled Kael’thas marched into Silvermoon and stole M’uru to be used to summon Kil’jaeden into Azeroth. He could recall its melancholic hymn, ominous and ultimately fitting the betrayal at hand. He saw himself, eyes burning with the sickest green hue and a fel crystal embedded in his chest where his heart had been. Cold and unrelenting with nothing but vengeance and wrath poisoning the last vestiges of his mind. He almost did not recognize himself, and yet it was a darkness he could not pretend. 

He remembered the flood of reports that the Shattered Sun Offensive had cut down most of his last remaining forces—including the fallen captain of his Royal Guard, Selin Fireheart—until all that stood was the demoness who, in the name of Kil’jaeden, drove the fel crystal threw his chest to sustain him, to puppeteer him to the brink of annihilation. Everything went black and numb. He could remember screaming against a wall of corruption only to be led on by this shell of a man he no longer recognized in himself. By this one demonic act, his mind was gone. _He_ was gone. Only then did he feel the cold blade in his body did he know he was dying.

He should have been stronger to resist the demon lord Kil’jaeden’s promises for his people’s salvation—to resist the powerful potency of fel magic. 

Death had overtaken him and erased every last bit of fel from his body. In an odd way, death was kinder to him in that single moment than anyone in Outland had been in those hard years. He did not see any reason why his people would even allow him into Silvermoon after all he had done to betray their trust.

He remembered… nothing else, but Voren’thal’s description had given rise to feelings so vague he could not discern any images to associate with them. But he did feel flashes of light. He could sense the Light running through his veins and in his eyes, but the source gave off a weak pulse of mana he would need to recover.

“To deny my Scryers the prophecy would be treason,” Voren’thal said.

“To withhold this information from them would be nonetheless,” Kael’thas replied. Voren’thal was one of Silvermoon’s most talented diviners. It was because of familiarity and the fact that his father valued the seer’s talents that Kael’thas picked him to be one of his closest advisors. But never did he imagine the seer had to make so risky a choice as he himself did.

“I have wrestled with this conflict for the past few weeks. It is also for their prophecy that I will not be revealing you to my followers. Many of them are still learning what it means to be seers and so, will not fully understand what I am doing,”—he gave a dark chuckle—“Let us hope that you perish before any of them finds out.”

“Indeed,” Kael’thas said, although he hoped he would _not_ perish.

“As for the people of Quel’Thalas,” Voren’thal added, “only Lor’themar has the power to do what he will with you. From there, you are on your own.” After a moment, Voren’thal yawned, the conversation having taken its toll on him. He sighed. “Come. You are awake now and so must eat. I cannot afford to have a corpse withering from starvation in my chambers.”


	3. Outlandish Reunion

**_Shattrath, A Month Later_ **

**_Voren’thal’s Private Quarters at the Scryer’s Tier_ **

Over the next month, Voren’thal would visit Kael’thas to serve him a couple of meals a day and provide fresh robes from his personal wardrobe. Neither would talk for long stretches at a time and mostly kept to themselves. With each gesture, Kael became more suspicious of the seer’s odd generosity. After all he had done to them, Voren’thal should’ve delivered him to Silvermoon in chains, or executed him himself. Though he did his best to bury the unease, simply grateful for each morning he awoke alive and well.

Food and drink had slowly but surely strengthened him physically. Kael’s ghostly white skin had warmed back to a healthy, fair tone and his hair no longer resembled dry hay, but returned to its naturally silky, golden hue. Catching a reflection of himself on an empty silver platter, he’d noticed that the once fel green glow of his eyes was now golden. Whether from the light of the naaru’s restoration powers or the newly restored Sunwell he couldn't be sure. Regardless, he looked and felt…. _alive_. It was yet another privilege he didn’t deserve. Straightening his posture, the prince took a deep breath and felt the tingle of arcane magic pulse through his veins like blood. Compared to chaotic fel, the arcane felt light, with a familiarity that seemed welcoming. Kael cast several incantations—conjuring wards and barriers, enchanted various items around the room to hover in the air, and used his fire magic to light the candles in his quarters. He warmed his bath water and tea. At times, when Voren’thal had not arrived with a meal before his hunger set in, Kael’thas conjured food and drink to tide him over. There loomed many days in which he ate very little, especially when guilt clouded his mind. Sleep wasn’t always easy, and his bed could either resemble at best, comfort, or at worst, confinement.

Weeks passed with little change in his routine, until one evening when Voren’thal did not leave immediately upon delivering the prince’s meal. With furrowed brows, the elder lingered beside his chair with an expression on his face that seemed to Kael he warred with himself on whether or not he should sit. “Eat,” he finally said gently, gesturing for Kael’thas to sit at the nearby table. The prince frowned, typically preferring to wait until Voren’thal left to help himself.   
  
“Stubbornness will get us nowhere,” the seer remarked.

And right he was. Kael’thas sighed and put aside the book he was reading, making his way to the table. He broke off a small chunk of bread and bit into it.

“You are showing improvement, that much is certain,” Voren’thal said.

“I can breathe more easily. It is a relief not to feel the insatiable hunger that had driven me for so long.” Kael’thas took another sip of wine and, lowering the edge of the glass, could see the seer gazing at the floor in deep thought. “Does it still weigh on you—my being here?”

“Considerably,” he frowned. “Though it is quite interesting what discomforts one can grow used to.” 

Kael’thas sighed at what sounded like the beginning of a conflict he lacked the energy for. His body tensed in defense of confronting any issues between himself and the people he failed. He’d known that sooner or later he would have to face it and up until now preferred to prolong it as long as possible. Suddenly sensing that time very near, part of him wished to escape and flee...but to where? And no matter how far he managed to get, he could never escape himself. Despite his fear, the other option of meeting his fate in being handed over to his people, to be judged in whatever way they saw fit seemed...freeing, in some way. And should they choose to sentence his second chance at life to death, perhaps it would do the world a service if he allowed that. Perhaps the purpose of his resurrection was not for _him_ but as an opportunity for his people to finally have justice, in something at least. At last.   
  
Kael’thas took a deep breath and let it out slow, resigning himself to acceptance of this fate. At least in death, he could serve his people well. Taking another sip of wine, the prince set the glass down as his eyes flicked to his old advisor, his voice soft.

“If you would have me imprisoned or even executed, Voren’thal, then I will not interfere.”

Frowning, the elder looked at him in disappointment. “Your penchant for the dramatic has not changed, young prince. Silvermoon does not and _will not_ , yet know of your presence here.” Voren’thal stroked the stub of his shaven chin, lost in thought for a moment. “The forces of the cosmos are… shifting in ways I am unfamiliar with. I can feel their conflict, and have been monitoring their change. Your miraculous return is of great importance, that much I know. Though in what way, I cannot yet say.”

Voren’thal then fell quiet and walked to the bookshelves, adjusting any books that looked in disarray. A few scrolls and other small items—an astrolabe and a bottle of incense—blocked the display of some books. While silence filled the air, Kael’s eyes fell upon a crate of runestones that had been sitting on the floor in the corner of the room since his arrival. The runes glowed a bright blue, and he vaguely recalled the seer’s plans to experiment with transposing tomes into such materials.

Kael’thas watched as the magister lifted his palm toward the crate, silently summoning one of the runestones from the pile. It flew into his hand with graceful ease as he snatched a tome off the shelf seemingly at random. Holding the stone several inches above the leather-bound cover, he whispered an incantation and a pale blue current of magic flowed from it to the runestone, consequently destroying the book in the process. It seemed to shrivel in the elder’s hand, turning to dust. Kael frowned slightly as that dust then settled on the floor of his quarters. And in one brief moment, he suddenly had one less book to read, and dirt to clean off his floor.

“You seem to have perfected it.”

Voren’thal smirked. “Yes. An intrinsic spell. Why pour over long-winded texts when you can have all the knowledge you could ever need right here in this stone? All you simply must do is focus your energy on the stone, and the skills are at hand.”

“A clever technique, but ah, I do prefer turning physical pages,” Kael’thas said.

Smiling faintly, Voren’thal stepped closer, setting the runestone in front of the prince. “The naaru A’dal requests an audience with you.”

His wide eyes flicked from the stone to the elder. “A’dal wishes to speak with me? Is he truly so wise as to wish an audience with the enemy?”

Voren’thal chuckled. “Wiser than I, and most certainly wiser than you. Not that you set the bar high, as they say. Since you will be venturing on public ground, an illusion is in order. You will create one, and I will place wards around the City of Lights.” The seer walked to the door and opened it, turning to flash him one last look of disappointment before bed. “This is an opportunity to prove yourself less of a fool than you were previously. Impress me.” The door slammed shut as he left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**_Shattrath, That Evening_ **

**_Inside the Terrace of Light_ **

Voren’thal led the disguised Kael’thas inside the Terrace of Light. Radiant, sky blue crystals hung from the ceiling, their soft glow soothing. Several priests were scattered nearby, whispering prayers or tending to the wounded in their presence. In the center of the terrace hovered the massive crystalline being of Light, the naaru A’dal. Kael knew the name well, having once mocked it. 

As he stepped before A’dal, the prince’s gaze remained on the ground for a moment before lowering the hood of his cloak, revealing the gold in his eyes and now coal black hair that trailed past his chest. All around him, he felt silence descend like a deadly premonition, making him feel as though he and A’dal were alone in the terrace, despite knowing otherwise. He closed his eyes and awaited the naaru’s oncoming judgment to strike him like lightning - painful and merciless.

But what greeted him instead was celestial music pouring into his mind like perpetual rain falling from the heavens. The angelic hymn grew louder and constant, calming his anxiety and lifting his weary spirit. An ethereal voice that wasn’t his own entered his mind.

 _“Even the most troubled souls are welcome in the Light, Kael’thas Sunstrider.”_

“A’dal...” his voice trailed off, unsure of what else to say. 

_“_ _You no longer wish to bring harm, and carry the weight of shame and regret in your heart.”_

Kael’thas nodded, remaining silent as he spoke through thought. “In my….madness, I caused suffering. Some of my most loyal sought solace with you instead of their own prince. I was ashamed. Angry. Jealous of their having chosen to serve you instead of me. And I damned the one called M’uru to the void. I… made some regrettable decisions. All of it.” 

_“The possible fate of the one known as M’uru was known to him long before you were born. It was a path of purpose his soul agreed upon ages ago. This sacrifice led to the renewal of the Sunwell, and your people are taking the first steps of healing. When one is plagued with despair, it is difficult to recognize the lessons Darkness may bring.”_

“I almost doomed my people to the Legion.”

 _“Yes. And through suffering, they have gained wisdom. All have a role to play. The Darkness ultimately serves the Light.”_

His lips trembled. “Surely I am but demon’s fodder.” 

_“They laid your body to rest on their most sacred soil.”_

He shook his head, as if to ward off the statement, a statement that was in ways, more painful than condemnation.. The implication did little to ease the heaviness in his heart. “ I can only think you and your kind must want to punish me, A’dal.”

 _“Through the Light, we_ _encourage the path of redemption and purpose. You must grow to forgive yourself, learning from the part you played._ _In service to others, to the Light, will you find hope, peace, and healing.”_

 _Service._ Kael’s face remained calm, his voice soft despite the intense heaviness of guilt in his chest. “I thank you for your words. I do wish to atone, though I feel…..unsure of how. Of what’s being asked of me.”   
  
Silence filled the space between them for several long seconds before A’dal spoke again.

_“Light and hope go with you, Kael’thas Sunstrider.”_

_~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

**_Shattrath, Winter of Year 26_ **

**_Voren’thal’s Private Quarters at the Scryer’s Tier_ **

Kael’thas peered out of the window, his illusion enchantment still in place and drink in hand. Canopies of trees loomed ahead, the lush foliage of Terokkar Forest tempering the familiar, blistering heat of Outland. As if braving the world’s dusky and perilous skies, massive golden statues of female elves towered over the Scryer’s Tier in a posture of graceful extended offering. Red and gold banners decorated buildings, lighted windows and magical energy signaling distant chattering of merchants and other magi. In between the top of a flight of stairs, a large pair of golden wings majestically rose from the ground as a red and gold carpet paved the way up. 

That was the normalcy of a place that reminded Kael’thas bitterly of home. Situated in various areas rested small, white tents housing soldiers of various races--humans, orcs, draenei, and even his blood elves. He recognized Horde and Alliance banners flying overhead and a denizen of troops making way for portals. By the manner of their farewells and embraces, it appeared as if _they_ were going home.

He envied them, all of them. No doubt they would be welcomed home with open arms and fanfare. To families and loved ones. To people who cared for them. Even before his own transgressions and the actions of Arthas Menethil, he was not a popular monarch. His long-tenured service in Dalaran had made his people feel neglected. Though in truth, the harsh fact was that Kael had favored his studies and duties to the human mage city over his obligations as the future ruler of the Quel’dorei.

If he went home now, his kin would kill him on sight. The Scryers represented only a handful of those particular kin, and powerful foes at that. He glanced over at Voren’thal sitting on the floor in the center of crystals lined up for his meditation. In that moment, he found himself fortunate to be among the likes of the seer, who treated him as well as he could, despite his betrayals. Voren’thal had always treated him as more of the son he wished his father had treated him. The two elders were roughly the same age, with Anasterian the more agile and powerful battlemage, and the seer a potent if the more physically ailing magister. His skill in divination carried a heavy reputation, valued in times of uncertainty about the future. He would give lectures to the young prince on divination magic, bittersweet memories that prompted Kael to accept the seer’s desire for recruitment when he’d asked to join him in Outland.

“War is coming to Azeroth,” Voren’thal said, opening his eyes to meet Kael’s. “The Horde and Alliance are en route to battle the looming Scourge threat. They travel to Northrend.”

Kael’thas turned away.  
  
_Northrend._ The setting of that fated battle. A symphony of frost and fire like a chorus fallen into discord. Illidan and his naga against the Scourge. Kael’thas against Arthas Menethil. His free hand clenched into a fist at his side as he lifted the glass to his lips, taking another slow sip of wine. His chest tightened in rage. The memories and pain that accompanied them came rushing back into his forefront of his mind, just before a warmth overcame him. It was a soothing feeling, one that was becoming more familiar the more often he found himself in the presence of naaru. There was no ethereal voice in his mind, no celestial chimes in the air nor crystalline being manifested before him yet…..a connection was present. Soothing him. Reminding him. Was this the Light? His thoughts drifted to the conversation with A’dal. 

_All have a role to play_ . What did that even mean? He almost preferred not to know, struggling to push away his innate curiosity. But he could sense the warmth pouring over him like sunlight on his skin as his emotions balanced. Kael sighed softly. He could not afford to lose concentration to the point where the enchantment of his disguise faltered. Despite the atonement he knew he owed, whatever _service_ he was to give, he still had business with Arthas Menethil. _The Lich King._ And a second chance to take his vengeance. 

But how? And with what army? He had nothing but his wits. Even the clothes he wore were given to him. Kael frowned. He had his magic, talent, and power and yet even that had proven weak against the damned former prince of Lordaeron. _Sun’s Light_ there was nothing he wouldn’t give to plant the bastard’s head on a pike outside the gates of Silvermoon. It was a crass thought yes, and yet - satisfying. And such an act was something to prove to the blood elves that rested in those tents, who were about to throw their lives on the line again that their prince had been reborn stronger, more competent and wise. That he vowed to atone. A sudden sorrow and determination swelled inside him. _He owed it to them._

Kael turned back to face the seer. “I wish to join their cause.”

Voren’thal choked on his wine. “Suicide so soon after a naaru—yes, a _naaru_ —revived your undeserving corpse? You won’t come back a second time, I promise you that!” 

Fire brimmed in Kael’s eyes, but the words that danced on the tip of his tongue would not surface. “I... never asked what your purpose was for doing all this.”

“Kael’thas Sunstrider,” Voren’thal sighed, as if seeking patience with an unruly child. “In all the long years I have known you, I held nothing but respect for you….cared for you. To the Scryers and I, the naaru’s vision is worthy of our trust and loyalty. I will not turn a blind eye from the prophecies presented to me. It is my duty to understand them as best I can, relay the messages and act on them when guided.” His expression softened as his voice lowered. “Even when it meant we had to slay the prince we trusted...loved.”

Kael said nothing for a moment, gaze falling to the wine in his glass before he took another sip. “I must do this. For the first time since my awakening I feel as though I have a path before me - a direction.”

Voren’thal’s brows furrowed. “ I feel certain your crimes will not go unpunished though it is not I who will see it done. It is a task best left to Lor’themar and his council. Though I know not when you will face it.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I will respect your decision to leave, if you feel you must. I pray to the Light you truly mean us no harm.” He met Kael’s eyes and the prince could see the pain in them. The wounds not yet healed. “Where will you go, exactly?”

“If what’s left of our warriors are being called to Northrend then I shall accompany them….in disguise, of course. At least for the foreseeable future. I will aid them in what ways I can. I do not know where this path will lead me, just that I must take it. Whether my destination be of death or elsewhere, I suppose I will know when the time comes.” 

Voren’thal looked away, eyes focused on a long crack running through the mortar of the stone wall across from him that he’d somehow never noticed before. When he did speak it was with a voice that sounded older and more frail. “Light guide your judgments, Kael’thas Sunstrider.”


End file.
